


but we have known each other too well in the dark

by paenteom



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: (or the lack thereof), Frotting, John's thing for Harold's wardrobe, M/M, Miscommunication, Moonlight Picnics, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 20:57:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9460175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paenteom/pseuds/paenteom
Summary: "She's fine," John mumbles into his hand. "In fact, she's on a date."There's silence on the other end of the line. Then Harold says, incredulous: "A date? In a field in the middle of the night?"John has been waiting for something he doesn't know how to name. Fortunately, Harold is good with words.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> This is a gift for Genly, the one other person in the world who _really_ understands what I mean when I say that Finch and Reese are soft.
> 
> Thank you so much to [linearoundmythoughts](http://archiveofourown.org/users/linearoundmythoughts) for betaing this for me, indulging my obsession with colons and semicolons, and cheering me on every single time I wanted to upend my desk and give up on writing forever. You're a goddamn treasure, seriously.

John's phone rings halfway through his morning stretches. He fishes it from the coffee table behind him and puts it on speaker phone before chucking it in the general direction of the couch, not even bothering to check the caller ID. Only one person calls him this early in the morning.

"Do we have a new number?"

"Good morning to you, too, Mr. Reese," Harold sounds brightly awake, despite the fact that it is barely 5AM.

John grins at his genuinely affronted tone, shifting from one leg to the other.

"We do, in fact," Harold continues smoothly. "I'm still in the process of gaining access to her bank account and email but it shouldn't take long. I will have more information for you when you're here."

"Strawberry today?" John says cheerily. Hearing Harold's voice tends to put him in a good mood.

"Caramel, I think," Harold answers primly before hanging up.

The city is already teeming with people by the time John jogs up the wide library staircase, taking two steps at a time. Harold is seated at his desk, his chin propped up on his fist, frowning at his screens. John takes a few seconds to smile fondly at the picture he presents and then wanders over to dump the box of donuts next to Harold's elbow unceremoniously.

"Good morning," John says, and Harold gives him a sideways look that somehow perfectly manages to communicate 'Oh, now you bother being polite!' solely with his eyebrows.

"Any news?" John asks.

Harold talks him through the number while decimating the pastries. Amanda Black, female, 20s, no suspicious financial activity, nothing of note in her email inbox or computer files.

"I'm afraid you'll have to tail her for a while, Mr. Reese," Harold says, and John shrugs and tries not to let his disappointment show. He had hoped for some more time in the library today, keeping Harold company. He hadn't really seen much of him lately; it had been a busy week for both of them. It feels ridiculous to miss someone he sees every day, but he does, in a way that  _ hurts _ .

He watches Harold bustle around the room out of the corner of his eye, trying not to make the staring too obvious. John supposes the weather is nice enough and he could stand to get some fresh air. He pretends that makes him feel better.

At least Harold doesn't mind John chatting while he sets up his surveillance. He keeps the line open, listening to John comment on this and that, even lets himself be engaged in a lengthy debate about the merits of eReaders. John pretends to be skeptical about them just so he can hear Harold lecture him, his warm voice passionately rattling off facts in his ear in a way that makes John's stomach flip with fondness.

Otherwise, the day passes by uneventfully. Amanda spends her entire Saturday marathoning a television show on her couch, and John has very little to do but wait, listening to Harold putter around the library and comment on own his work occasionally. He sits through Amanda's microwave dinner (also eaten in front of the television) and her halfhearted yoga routine. Absolutely nothing happens otherwise.

Normally, John sticks around for a bit after their number has gone to bed during surveillance, just to make sure, but today he starts packing up his equipment as soon as the lights in Amanda's apartment turn off. He tries to justify his hasty departure to himself as a 'gut feeling’, but the truth is that he just wants to get back to the library.

John tries desperately not to think about how much he misses Harold's face, his cologne, the way he taps his chopsticks against the table edge when he's engaged in a particularly good discussion. He fails, of course. He’s been aware of his growing affection for Harold (and how potentially dangerous that could be) for a long time now, but it was easier to shelve it as a problem for later before Root, and Kara: before all the admissions, and all the things that John  _ couldn't _ make himself say.

It's been different since then. More immediate. Harder to pass off as nothing more than gratitude and admiration.

He's fully aware he's being ridiculous. Unfortunately, being aware of something doesn't necessarily mean that he has any control over the warm feeling in his chest when he looks at Harold, or the flutter in his belly when their fingers brush. John rubs a tired hand over his face and shoulders his camera. He'll have to find a way to deal with this inconvenience.

He's halfway home when Harold's voice crackles to life in his ear: "Mr. Reese."

He sounds urgent, and John tenses in preparation for bad news.

"The GPS in Miss Black's phone just informed me that she has apparently gotten into a car, which seems to be quickly making its way out of the suburbs."

John blinks.

"It's 1AM," he says quietly, mindful of the taxi driver's curious eyes in the rear mirror, "and she doesn't own a car."

"Precisely," Harold says gravely. "I'd advise you follow her route as quickly as possible."

John waits for Harold's signal, hastily paying the driver and clambering out of the taxi as soon as Harold indicates they're close to one of the various cars he has stashed around the city. Soon John is on Amanda's trail. The city slowly shrinks around him until his surroundings are distinctly rural, vast stretches of field interrupted by small rows of houses.

Harold doesn't close the line, and John anchors himself with Harold's soft breathing mixed with the humming background sounds of the library. When the tracker indicates that he is only five minutes away from Amanda's location, he parks the car on a side street and continues on foot.

"Mr. Reese," Harold suddenly speaks up in his ear, "it seems our number is currently located in the middle of a field."

John, who had been slowly nearing the field in question, slows down.

"Maybe she got away from her abductor?" he muses out loud.

"She's not moving," Harold clarifies. He sounds worried, and it worries John, too.

John moves through the darkness as silently as he can. The night is bright and the rural sky is dotted with stars, so he keeps to the trees surrounding the field.

"Thirty seconds from her location," Harold says, and John stops abruptly, and laughs quietly into the palm of his hand. Harold misinterprets the huff of air completely.

"Is Miss Black okay?" he questions sharply. "Mr. Reese, what's going on?"

"She's fine," John mumbles into his hand. "In fact, she's on a date."

There's silence on the other end of the line. Then Harold says, incredulous: "A date? In a field in the middle of the night?"

John watches the couple shift on the picnic blanket, the wine bottle glinting in the moonlight.   Amanda's arm is haphazardly slung around the other woman's body, and she's nosing into her hair. They look relaxed, content. Happy. John tries to ignore the sudden, sharp yearning in his chest and puts on his most cheerful voice.

"It's a picnic, Finch. You must have heard of the concept, at least."

Harold sniffs, managing to inject disdain into the sound.

"This entire affair seems incredibly impractical to me," he remarks, sounding so prissy that John is sure his panic has passed completely.

The couple are mere silhouettes against the dark night sky by now, and John has to strain his eyes to make out their movements.

"I think it's sweet," he says, honestly.

"I think it's a perfect way to get grass stains and an invitation for ants."

"Maybe, but you also get to stargaze," John says, amusement coloring his voice. Trust Harold to make a moonlight picnic sound entirely unappealing.

"I wouldn't have taken you for a romantic, Mr. Reese."

John huffs out a quiet laugh and starts to make his way back through the field.

"You of all people should know that appearances can be deceiving, Finch."

Harold makes a thoughtful little noise in his ear but doesn't comment otherwise. A few seconds later the clattering of his keyboard starts up again; the irregular rhythm is soothing to John at this point, a sign that Harold is safe even when John can't be there to make sure of it.

John is already halfway back to New York when Harold speaks up again.

"Explain the appeal to me, then," he says simply. John doesn't have to ask what he means. Harold often picks up conversational strands much later and expects people to be able to follow along, and John gets a thrill out of being able to keep up with him every time.

"You get to be alone with the person you love," he answers matter-of-factly. "Really alone. There's no one else awake but you and them. It doesn't matter that it's probably not true because it still feels like it. Like you have the entire night sky to yourself."

He pauses, adjusts the car's trajectory on the narrow road.

"Like you have the person you love all to yourself, too."

Harold doesn't reply immediately.

"I see," he eventually says, his voice even. "It sounds like you have fond memories of this particular experience, Mr. Reese."

"No," John says, surprising them both with his honesty. "But I would like to make some, one day."

Harold doesn't answer him. John doesn't need him to. He drives home to the sound of Harold's even breathing in his ear.

The case gets wrapped up two days later. Turns out that Amanda's ex-boyfriend was not too happy to be ditched, and didn't like his replacement either. John dispatches him effortlessly, and leaves the mess for Fusco.

"I think I'll head home," he tells Harold while zip-tying the unconscious ex to a pipe. "It's getting pretty late."

"Actually," Harold says, voice distant over the line, "I would prefer that you could come by the library first, if it's no trouble."

John cocks his head in confusion.

"Sure," he replies. "Any particular reason?"

"Yes," Harold says, and of course doesn't elaborate. John has learned by now that trying to get something out of Harold when he doesn't want to tell you is pointless, so he saves his questions for later.

The library is dark when John arrives. He peers into the gloom with a frown and slowly makes his way past the rows of shelves to the center, his steps cautious and slow.

Harold is waiting for him there. He has evidently cleared his computer equipment off his desk, and instead piled the desk top with enough food to feed four people. He looks nervous, fidgeting with a button on his waistcoat. He has taken his suit jacket off, and rolled up his shirt sleeves to his elbows; he looks more casual than John has seen him in a long time. He catches himself staring at Harold's arms just a little too long, watching the muscles move underneath his skin in the dim light, and forcefully redirects his gaze back up.

"That's a lot of food," John states the obvious. He peers around the darkened room. The only light source is the rays from nearby street lamps filtering in through the high library windows and the blinking server lights in the back. He wonders silently what this entire setup is about, but figures Harold will tell him in his own time.

"Sit," Harold tells him. John obeys.

Harold begins piling John's plate with food. He makes idle small-talk while he does, about his day, John's day, the weather. John goes along with it, his confusion surely obvious to Harold but left unacknowledged.

The food is fantastic. John eats slowly, savoring the taste while Harold chatters away while they eat about nothing in particular, telling him about his current coding project, then seamlessly segueing into his opinion on the latest book he's reading. John lets Harold's voice wash over him, interjecting occasionally but happy to hear him talk otherwise. He loves listening to Harold, to the particular way he phrases things, the way words roll off his tongue so effortlessly.

He watches the way Harold moves his hands while animatedly explaining something, the small, unconscious smile he gets when he feels passionate about a topic, and John lets himself feel warm and fond without guilt for once. It’s easier somehow, in the dark, to admit to every affectionate thought he usually quells as soon as they start.

He only realizes that he has essentially spent the last few minutes gazing besottedly at Harold without hiding it at all when Harold abruptly stops talking and fixes him with an odd stare. John hastens to rearrange his face into a more neutral expression.

"Something on your mind, Mr. Reese?" 

John swallows, mentally combing the past hour for an excuse for his behavior, his relative silence.

He settles on the as of yet still unexplained question as to why Harold asked him here.

"Not that I don't appreciate our little get-togethers after a case, Finch," he says, keeping his tone light, "but this entire thing seemed premeditated to me. Is it your birthday and you just aren't telling me? Because if so, I'm hurt. I'm a great gift giver."

"It seems I have failed to make my intentions adequately clear," Harold explains. John blinks at him, confused, and then somehow Harold's palm lands on top of his and John's heart stutters in his chest like a skittish animal.

"Admittedly the disadvantages of an outdoors setting still outweighed the advantages for me and I suppose the server lights aren't quite as romantic as star light, but I figured–"

He trails off and fixes his gaze on the tabletop, looking lost.

"It makes for a very poor replacement of your wish, John. I am sorry."

"I don't understand," John says, because it's the truth.

Harold doesn't speak right away. When he does, his voice is small, unsure, his fingers fluttering nervously against John's skin.

"I have realized in the past few weeks that I have come to care for you a great deal," he admits, and John's mouth goes dry, his blood pounding loudly in his ears.

"I was unsure of what to do about this at first," Harold continues. His tongue peeks out to wet his lips nervously and John stares, trembling.

"Until a few weeks ago, I would have been content to never breach the topic for as long as our working relationship continued. Carrying a torch for someone is not exactly a feeling I'm unfamiliar with."

Harold tightens his fingers around John's hand before abruptly letting go. John misses the warmth immediately.

"I'm not content with that solution anymore." His voice is steadier now, but he still seems to be unable to look John in the eyes. "I have spent a lot of time keeping people I lo– people I care about at a distance, and mourning what I could have had once I inevitably lost them. While I was rationally aware that we don't have much time left, it has never been clearer to me than after what happened on that roof, and John, if– if there is even the smallest chance that you might feel the same–"

Harold's voice cracks, and John's chest aches, desperately, with how much he loves him.

"I suppose I felt a grand romantic gesture was needed. Unfortunately, I am a little out of practice. Forgive me."

John slides out of his chair, his knees hitting the floor before he's even consciously decided to kneel. He takes a shaking breath and places his hands gently on top of Harold's thighs. His skin radiates warmth, even through the thick layer of fabric, and John strokes his thumb up and down the inside of Harold's leg, mentally cataloging coarse wool, the slight hitch in Harold's breath.

John can't look at him.

He stares at the pattern of Harold's vest instead, the buttons gleaming in the low light. He's overcome with the sudden urge to press his face into Harold's stomach and breathe him in, and his fingers unconsciously clench into the fabric of Harold's trousers.

He exhales slowly and rests his head on top of Harold's leg, his eyes fluttering shut. Harold still hasn't said anything, so John breaks the silence for him. It's easier somehow, with his eyes closed, to voice the thoughts that have been occupying his every waking hour for months now. It feels like he owes them to Harold: a confession for a confession.

"I think about touching you, a lot," John says. "All the time, actually."

He tries to make it sound casual, but he's painfully aware of all the ways it isn’t. His voice sounds rough even to his own ears, desperately unsure. The void left by his words is too hard to bear, so he talks.

"I don't know when it started," he says, and it's the truth. It seeped into his life gradually, slowly: he can't pinpoint the first time he looked at the soft skin just above Harold's collar and wanted– wanted–

John turns his face into the wool. It's scratchy against his face and he doesn't even mind it.

Harold's leg twitches underneath him and John is about to move away, put distance between them again, apologize as many times as Harold will let him, but then Harold's hand lands on top of John's head and John stops breathing.

He trembles, desperately, as Harold slowly threads his fingers through John's hair, his touch so light it's almost non-existent.

"John," Harold breathes, his voice so gentle that something in John's chest unfurls. "Would you please look at me?"

It takes an effort to turn his head. It's almost impossible; in fact, were it not for the fact that Harold explicitly asked him to do so, John isn’t sure he could face him. He raises his head and looks Harold in the eyes, and his heart hits his ribcage.

Harold's eyes are wide, his mouth downturned, trembling. He looks terrified, John realizes with a start, and somehow that makes everything easier. He can be the strong one, if Harold needs him to.

"I don't know when it started," he repeats, his palms firm against Harold's thighs, "but I know why."

He leans forward at the same time Harold's hand slides down and cups his cheek so reverently that it's almost more than John can bear. He stops just short of their noses bumping together and watches the way Harold's pupils dilate, savors the little puffs of air against his skin.

Then he closes his eyes, and kisses him.

Harold sighs against him, his fingers trailing down to curl around John's neck, and then he opens his mouth and kisses John deeply, intently, licking into him in a way that makes John feel lightheaded.

Harold tugs him up by his collar impatiently, never once breaking the kiss, until John is sliding into his lap, hands braced on Harold's chest. Harold is so warm and firm under him, the line of his body against John's so perfect, that it feels like divine providence.

"Wait," John murmurs, muffled by Harold's insistent kisses, "wait, your hip. I don't want to hurt you." Harold just tugs him closer.

"I'm not made of glass, John, I won't break," he says, and his tone is so prissy that John can't help but laugh. His giggling quickly turns into a groan as Harold kisses a line down his neck to his collarbone, biting down gently but firmly.

John shifts his hips upwards; the movement is small but the sudden friction feels so good that it wrings a helpless moan out of him. He can feel Harold's breath on his neck, Harold's fingers tightening around his hips, urging him onwards, and it's so easy to give in and roll his hips against Harold like he's dreamed of doing for so long now.

Harold's mouth is hot on his skin, his tongue lapping over John's pulse point in a way that makes him shiver with need. John moves his hips in small, involuntary circles, the rough feel of fabric dragging over his skin amplifying every sensation.

The small part of him that's still capable of rational thought wants to slow down, take stock. When he fantasized about this during those late, lonely nights that made indulging certain thoughts too easy, it had been unhurried, methodical. He'd had visions of undressing Harold slowly, taking his time with each button so he could savor each little patch of unveiled skin.

He certainly hadn't planned on desperately rutting against Harold's thigh like a teenager, but life rarely works out as planned for him lately.

John tries to tamp down on the sounds escaping him, embarrassed, but they fall from his lips anyway: soft, little gasps and cries that seem to almost echo in the vast open space of the library. Harold's grip on him is tight enough that John expects bruises, and the thought makes him tremble underneath Harold's hands.

"John," Harold gasps against his neck, and he sounds  _ wrecked _ in a way that makes John's stomach flutter, "what do you want?" His lips move against John's overheated skin; the touch is faint but still enough to wring a shivering exhale out of John. "Please, tell me what you want."

John is at the point where stringing words into a coherent sentence is hard, but Harold asked him– ordered him to, so he tries.

"Want you to touch me," he gasps, squeezing his eyes shut with embarrassment. "Please."

"Yes," Harold murmurs, and his fingers curl underneath John's shirt almost immediately. "Yes, of course."

The sudden contact of skin on skin makes John's hips jerk against Harold, a desperate, stuttering rhythm. Harold's warm palm on John's back is almost more than John can take. Harold trails his fingers lightly over John's skin, goosebumps rising in their wake and John wants to sob with how good that simple touch is.

He fiercely yearns for Harold to kiss him again. It takes him a few seconds to realize that he can simply ask for this now, that he's allowed to crave things from Harold, that Harold wants him to–

He's dizzy with it, with all the things he can finally say out loud.

"Wanted this for so long," he gasps, "please, kiss me, please–"

Harold's lips are on his before he's even finished speaking.

"Anything," he mumbles in between kisses, "anything you want– oh, John."

John loses himself in the sensation: Harold's warm body underneath him, against him, the hot slide of Harold's tongue against his, matching the rhythm John's hips are setting. His blood beats hotly between his legs and he moans into the kiss, open-mouthed and sloppy.

Harold shifts against him on the next thrust, meeting him halfway, and John's fingers clench into the soft fabric of Harold's vest at the feeling of Harold's cock dragging against his. He wants this indefinitely, nothing but the push and pull of their bodies, the soft heat of Harold's mouth.

He pulls away from the kiss and slides out of Harold's lap instead, despite the quiet sound of distress Harold makes. John's knees hit the marble floor of the library hard, but he barely feels it, just directs his gaze up at Harold's face instead. He's blushing right down to his still pristine collar, his lips flush and wet, and John is drunk with the knowledge that  _ he _ did this to Harold.

He rubs his palms slowly up and down Harold's legs and waits for the trembling in them to subside. Then he puts his mouth on him.

Harold hisses out loud, a strangely harsh sound in the quiet of the library. His hand comes to rest on top of John's head again, not pushing down or pulling, just a comforting weight. He's so hard and hot, even through the thick wool of his trousers; being able to feel his desire, how much he obviously wants this, makes John feel dizzy with want.

He rubs his mouth all over the fabric, unashamed, his tongue flat against the head of Harold's cock. Harold's breathing is harsh, his fingers clenched tightly into John's hair. His voice sounds strangled when he speaks:

"John, please, I can't–"

John is unbuttoning Harold's trousers before he's even finished speaking. His fingers are trembling with the need to get his mouth on Harold's skin. He waits for Harold to lift his hips and impatiently tugs his trousers down. The sight of the patterned boxers Harold is wearing underneath fills John with so much inexplicable fondness that his chest hurts with it; he bends down and rubs his cheek against them reverently, right where Harold's cock is straining against the buttons.

Harold's breathing hitches, his fingers tightening in John's hair, not enough to be painful—even though John would probably enjoy that. He thinks about Harold pushing him down on his cock, making him take it until it's just on the edge of too much, and pulling him back up by his hair, only to do it all over again. His cock twitches in his pants at the thought. Scratch that then: he'd  _ definitely _ enjoy that.

Harold's boxers are wet where he's leaking against them. John noses into them and laps lightly at the damp spot, humming happily. Harold gasps, his hips twitching up the slightest bit. He exhales John's name softly, and John decides to stop teasing and get on with it.

The small buttons are harder on his shaking fingers, but he manages. It's worth it for the soft sound Harold makes when John closes his hand around his cock. He can't help but stroke him, once, twice, before finally pulling him out through the slit. His skin is warm and silky and so much better than John could have imagined.

John looks up at Harold one more time. He can't help but smile at the sight. Even looking as ruffled as he does, Harold still somehow exudes a quiet poise; John wants to spend the rest of his life learning how to wreck it in the best ways possible. Harold gives him a quick smile in reply, sharp and wonderful, and John commits it to memory before closing his eyes and finally– finally– sucking Harold into his mouth.

John takes the time to really savor the feeling: the weight of him on his tongue, Harold's taste filling his mouth, the soft sounds Harold is making, helpless and broken open. John moves slowly at first, dragging his tongue down the underside as he slides upwards until he can lap at the head, one hand curled loosely around the base of Harold's cock. He catalogs Harold's responses greedily: the quiet moans, the gentle gasps, the way his fingers flex in John's hair.

His own cock strains painfully against his pants, and he tries awkwardly to undo them one-handedly before finally giving up and settling for rubbing himself through the fabric. He could come like this, easily—the way Harold sounds when John swallows around him is almost enough to undo him. John takes a deep breath and slides down again, and Harold's hips buck up,  _ hard _ .

It takes John by surprise; he can't quite mask the cough and Harold pulls him off immediately, cradling his face in his hands. 

"John, are you alright?" he stammers, his cadence frantic with worry, his thumb gently wiping at the wetness around John's eyes. His own eyes are wide, the barest ring of blue visible around his blown pupils.

"Peachy keen," John says. His voice sounds rough and it shoots a small thrill through him: Harold did that. Harold made him sound that way.

"I'm so sorry," Harold says, sounding like he means it. "I don't know what came over me; that was absolutely unacceptable. Please don't feel like you in any way have to – "

"Harold," John says, because he has had a really long day and his patience isn't what it used to be, "if you don't immediately stop apologizing and fuck my mouth like you mean it I can't be held accountable for what I might do."

Harold stares at him, stunned into silence for once. John waits patiently for him to catch up with the program, and smiles when Harold slides his hands back into his hair. Harold's answering smile is still a little shaky, unsure, but he spreads his legs just the slightest bit anyway: an invitation. John takes a moment to be quietly grateful for the way Harold so openly gives him what he wants, what he needs, even though this is clearly new territory for him. It makes him feel warm in a way he's not quite ready to examine yet.

He relaxes his throat before he swallows Harold down a second time. Harold's hips twitch underneath him and John moans encouragingly, and then Harold is thrusting up and into him and John sees white. Harold builds up a rhythm that has John's fingers curling desperately into the fabric of Harold's trousers, holding on.

He can't stop thinking about Harold fucking him in earnest, so he doesn't try to. He just takes what Harold gives him and imagines peeling him out of his suit entirely, laying him down on the couch in the back, sinking down on him slowly, rapturously, making it so good for him, for both of them.

For a while there's just this: Harold's warm palm gently but firmly pushing him down again and again, the hot glide of him on John's tongue, the way John's vision goes slightly fuzzy around the edges every time until Harold's face is framed in a bright halo against the dim street light filtering in through the milky windows.

"Oh, John," Harold breathes, and John shudders at the adoration in his voice. He feels like he's floating, the cold marble under his knees barely noticeable. He doesn't try to keep quiet anymore, just breathes in Harold's smell, treasures the way Harold's soft vest rubs against his cheeks.

"You're so–"

Harold trails off and moans, pulling John back up by his hair, making him groan around Harold's cock. John is so hard he's aching, and his hips twitch forward desperately, seeking friction. He shifts forward in Harold's grip until he can comfortably rub himself against Harold's leg; any semblance of shame he had left vanished the second he went to his knees for Harold.

At this point both their movements are desperate, urgent, Harold's hand on the back of his neck urging John on. He's so close, John can tell, every breath a strangled moan. John's knuckles are white where they're clenched into the wool of Harold's trousers.

Harold's grip on him tightens almost painfully, and then he's– he's coming in John's  _ mouth _ . John swallows, desperately, blinking tears out of his eyes, the sensation almost more than he can take. Harold pulls him off and John whines; he wants forward, he wants Harold's cock in his mouth, he wants–

"John," Harold says, quiet and shaky. "John, darling–"

John arches against him and comes.

For one dizzying moment his world narrows down to only this: every point of contact between him and Harold, the pleasure so overwhelming that it feels like he was temporarily suspended in time, like a fly in amber.

The tension drains out of him slowly, until Harold's arms are the only thing holding him upright. Server lights are dancing behind his closed eyelids.

He registers belatedly that Harold has started petting his hair.

"Oh," John breathes out and he can feel Harold's quiet laughter vibrate through his entire body.

"Indeed," Harold says, his fingernails scratching lightly over John's scalp in a way that makes him purr with pleasure. At some point he should probably do something about his soiled pants but not yet. For now, he just wants to bask for a bit.

John spends a few moments curled up against Harold, bringing his breathing under control. Harold never once stops petting him, which vaguely makes John feel like he's probably being spoiled. He doesn't mind, not one bit.

"I'm guessing our dessert went cold," Harold says eventually. John huffs out a laugh against his leg.

"Rain check," he mumbles. "Maybe we can have an actual picnic next time."

"Absolutely not," Harold says primly.

John smiles so wide his cheeks hurt with it, turning his face until he can kiss Harold's palm. They'll get there eventually; John knows. There's very little Harold says ‘no’ to where John is concerned. Maybe John can finally let himself believe that that means something.


End file.
